Kierra stared at her phone long after the message appeared, the glow of the screen lighting her face in the quiet of her apartment. There's a charity gala this weekend. Be there. I want you there.
Her first instinct was to laugh at the absurdity. She wasn't the kind of woman who attended galas. She poured coffee into paper cups, scrubbed tables sticky with sugar, and stretched tips until they covered rent. She had no dress fit for glittering chandeliers, no polished manners for champagne toasts.
But beneath the shock pulsed something more dangerous: the knowledge that he wanted her there. That Logan Hayes—untouchable, married, carved into the city like a monument of wealth and power—had reached into her small life and tugged her into his world.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. She should say no. Delete the message. Pretend she had never seen it. But instead, her fingers trembled as she typed: I don't belong there.
The reply came within seconds. You belong wherever I want you.
Her breath caught. The audacity of it should have made her angry. Instead, it unraveled something inside her, that same dangerous heat she had felt in the park.
Kierra shut the phone off, tossed it onto the couch, and pressed her palms to her eyes. This was spiraling too fast.
Two days later, Logan sat in his office overlooking the city skyline, the message thread still open on his phone. He had half-expected her to vanish, to shut the door on what was unfolding between them. But she hadn't. Her reluctance had only stoked the fire.
His assistant entered with a folder. "The Whitmore charity gala, sir. Guest confirmations, security arrangements."
Logan flipped it open, scanning names and details, but his focus drifted. His wife's name was there, her seat already secured beside him. His world was accounted for, polished and seamless.
And yet, he imagined her—Kierra Jade—walking into that ballroom, her presence shaking the foundation of everything.
"Thank you," he said curtly, dismissing the assistant.
When he was alone again, he leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. He was no stranger to risk. He had built empires on it. But this… this wasn't a business calculation. This was obsession.
The night before the gala, Kierra found herself standing in front of a shop window, staring at a dress displayed on a mannequin. Deep emerald green, cut elegantly at the waist, with a neckline that felt far braver than anything she had ever worn.
She told herself she had only stopped on her walk home to look. That she had no intention of stepping inside. But her feet betrayed her, carrying her through the door, the faint jingle of a bell announcing her weakness.
"Looking for something special?" the saleswoman asked with a knowing smile.
Kierra hesitated. She wanted to say no. She wanted to say she was just browsing. But instead, her voice betrayed her. "Something… for a gala."
The words felt foreign, like she was borrowing someone else's life.
Within an hour, the dress was folded into a bag, along with a pair of heels she could barely walk in. Her hands shook as she handed over her card, the purchase eating into savings she couldn't afford to lose. But when she looked at the dress again, she couldn't deny the thrill that licked through her veins.
She was stepping into danger, and some part of her craved it.
On the night of the gala, the hotel glittered with gold light. Cars lined the entrance, black and polished, carrying men in tuxedos and women draped in jewels. Photographers snapped pictures of arrivals, their flashes like small explosions in the dark.
Kierra stood across the street, her heart a hammer in her chest. She had never felt so out of place. The dress clung to her in ways that made her hyperaware of every step, the heels wobbling slightly on the sidewalk.
She almost turned back. Almost called it off. But then she saw him.
Logan Hayes stepping from his car, his presence commanding as ever, his wife Veronica at his side. Veronica looked every inch the queen of that world, her sapphire gown flawless, her hand resting possessively on his arm.
Kierra's stomach twisted. She had known he was married—of course she had. But seeing them together, perfect and untouchable, was like a blade slipping between her ribs.
She should have left right then. But Logan's eyes lifted, scanning the crowd, and when they found hers, the air shifted. The muscle in his jaw tightened, his gaze burning with something that cut through the noise, the flashing cameras, the world itself.
In that moment, Kierra wasn't invisible. She wasn't just a barista or a mistake waiting to happen. She was the reason a man like him faltered.
And it was enough to keep her rooted in place.
Inside the ballroom, chandeliers cast golden light across marble floors. Music drifted from a string quartet, mingling with the soft clink of glasses.
Logan played his part—hand on Veronica's back, polite smile, greetings to influential families. But his mind wasn't on them. His mind was on the woman lingering at the edge of the room, her emerald dress catching the light like temptation itself.
He excused himself from a conversation, his eyes fixed on her.
When he finally reached her, he didn't speak at once. He only looked, letting the silence stretch, letting her feel the weight of his attention.
"You came," he said at last, his voice low, meant for her ears alone.
Kierra's lips parted, but no sound came. Her throat was dry, her nerves alive.
"I shouldn't have," she whispered finally.
"Probably not," Logan admitted, his gaze unyielding. "But I wanted you here."
Every instinct screamed at her to step away. To protect herself. To remember his wife stood only feet away. But when his hand brushed against hers in the shadow of the crowd, the world narrowed to the dangerous current between them.
It was madness. It was ruin. And yet, Kierra couldn't walk away.
Not tonight.